


Seducing Harry Potter, or "Pink Unicorns Made Me Do It"

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Remix, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>An excerpt from</i> <span class="u">Big Truths, Small Lies</span>, <i>the memoir of Draco A. Malfoy, Esq.</i> -- Remixing vaysh‘s <a href="http://vaysh.livejournal.com/277956.html">Pink Unicorns Made Them Do It</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seducing Harry Potter, or "Pink Unicorns Made Me Do It"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pink Unicorns Made Them Do It](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/107550) by vaysh. 



> Written for the H/D Remix Vol. 7 - for vaysh. Much love to you!

Harry mutters in his sleep, and rather than find it irritating, which I did whenever Astoria sleep-spoke, I find it oddly endearing. He snuggles too, which I think I should have suspected. Harry always seemed the clinging sort. And yet I never would have thought I’d experience it first-hand. Ours was too fraught a history -- too full of embarrassment and pain and mutually assured destruction. We damned each other and saved each other too many times--

I am caught by melodrama, it seems. Something odd happened there that night, something I cannot possibly hope to explain properly. My mind was everywhere and nowhere at once. I couldn’t keep hold, as one thought bled into another and on the train went.

I’m mixing metaphor too. How ghastly. I suppose all this will eventually be edited out. No one wants to read the ramblings of a sentimental old fool unless they are orderly and precise.

I suspect that part of my reason for being so all over the map is that even now, decades later, I still cannot quite believe what happened between him and I. I still wake in the middle of the night sometimes and have to reach for him, have to feel the comforting heat of his body pressed into my side or the heft of his cock and bollocks in my hands, on my tongue. I have to push inside him with the same frenetic energy of our youth, forgetting for a moment that I’m a man of advancing years, forgetting that I cannot or perhaps should not move as I used to do, forgetting that he is and has been mine for so long that I no longer need to claim him. He is mine, and I am his, and we are each other’s. I don’t know why the urge comes over me with such fervor; I only know that it does.

Perhaps it is those supposed pink unicorns of which Potter (because he was Potter then, not Harry -- the familiarity came much, much later) had spoken that night, odd one that he is. Merlin, what he does to me. Can you imagine, dear reader? Pink unicorns made me do it.

We had met for a drink to talk. I had wanted to speak to him about something, some work-related nonsense. Yes, perhaps it had just been a terribly obvious excuse to make time with him because we so rarely crossed paths outside the courtroom, but I can assure you that my intentions at the outset were entirely noble, if someone such as myself could ever truly be considered to have noble intentions. Harmless, perhaps, is a better descriptor. No fighting, and certainly no rough sex against the brick wall behind the Leaky. Sex with Potter, while a delicious fantasy I had played in my mind many times before, was not only improbable, it was impossible. Not, of course, due to his sexuality: the irreconcilable differences that led to his divorce from Ginevra were solely such that he preferred the feel of a hard, thick cock in his hands, between his thighs, up his arse. They remained friends, as they should -- there were children, after all -- and last I had heard, she had attempted to set him up with some reporter-friend of hers.

No, sex with Potter was impossible before that night because Potter and I hated each other. I have already discussed at length my convoluted and self-destructive or self-redemptive history with The Boy Who Lived, and I have no need to reiterate it now. You can have a skim back through the chapters that precede this if you need a refresher course. Go ahead. I shall wait patiently for your return.

I hated different things as we got older and lost the petty, childish rivalries that categorized our youth. Instead, I hated the way his uniform made him look impressive and regal. He used to stride through the Ministry with purpose, and people sat up taller and paid more attention in his wake. He brought it out of them with a bare glance in their direction, a raised eyebrow, a half-smile. He was and is a born leader, and yet, despite the impression that he gave, he wore it all with an aw, shucks sort of nonchalance. As if he had no idea how special he was. As if he could not possibly understand why a person would want to fall in line behind him. I hated that he had no sense of his own power. The things he could have accomplished if ever he gave a damn.

I’m too hard on him. He never had a healthy Slytherin ambition nor did he ever want to be anything other than Harry, just Harry. No matter the powerful wizard he became, no matter the figurehead, the leader, the hero, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord, all the labels we his disciples placed upon him. He never wanted any of it. He just wanted to be a man, a good man. He just wanted to be a man who came to work every day, did his best and then went home at night to his loving family.

Yet then I wanted so much more for him and so I hated that he wasn’t ambitious. Although I suspect that he might have been forced into the Ministership had he flown much higher, and if he had become Minister, I never could have had him, nor I suppose would I have wanted him. I’ve always been a paradox. I think he likes that about me, now.

Potter walked through the doors of the Leaky and found me there at a table. He was all casual in his Muggle outfit, and my mouth watered. The button-down shirt pulled taut against his broad chest, the light silver pinstripes glittering in the torchlight, and the dark trousers perfectly hugged his slender, but toned legs and his ridiculously perfect arse. I had so often seen him in his Auror robes that I simply hadn’t expected to find such a well-dressed person beneath them. He seemed meant for me even then, but I couldn’t have known what was to come, despite my inclination. I couldn’t have known what was in store.

We chatted comfortably, a glass of Ogden’s each, though both remained curiously unfinished. We didn’t need firewhiskey to get on, not like we might have were we younger men still fighting against the rising tide of animosity that colored our interactions. But as we spoke, my want for him never diminished. It remained there at the back of my mind, like the steady ticking of a clock, just present enough to notice but not so intense as to push me to make a move.

I told him a joke, some silly thing one of my associates was fond of repeating at the Christmas party each year. One of those ‘a lawyer and an Auror walk into a pub’ type of things. Incredibly silly, barely funny at all. But you would have thought Stephen Fry had taken my place across from Potter at the way Potter laughed. Head thrown back, slapping the table, loud and lusty, he was quite a sight to behold. But then when he’d righted himself again, he undid the collar of his shirt.

I swallowed hard and felt a bead of sweat drip down the back of my neck. It was indeed rather warm in the Leaky that night, but my sudden flush had nothing at all to do with the temperature.

His eyes glittered mischievously. It’s rather a cliche, I know, but they did. They did then and they do now. Whenever he has what he thinks is some wicked, devious idea, or when he thinks he’s gotten one over on me, the gorgeous green of his eyes which hasn’t lost its vibrancy through the years sparkles with mischief.

To distract myself from the building urgency of that want in the back of my mind, I offered to get us another round, neverminding that we hadn’t even finished our first. He gave a casual wave of his hand before reaching up to undo another button and exposing the hollow of his throat, and my decision was suddenly and definitively made for me.

Lust flooded me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I needed him more than I have ever needed something in my life. And I say need because it truly was more than mere want. If want had been like the steady ticking of a clock, need was the alarm going off. I needed him like I needed air to breathe. I got his attention and indicated for him to follow me out, trusting that he’d follow, but I couldn’t even wait until we were free of the Leaky before I had to have him. Neither, as it seemed, could he.

His rough, worker’s hands with the bitten-down nails were decadently rough against my bare flesh. He stroked my cock with fervor, seemed fascinated by it, and I could tell from the pace that he was as worked up with need as I was. Whatever it was that had changed between us in the moments between stupid jokes and unfinished drinks was as powerful in him as it was within me. He could have finished me in a few strokes, but I needed more, and it was clear that he did as well. I was overcome with the powerful and almost violent need to take him, and so I shoved him out of that dark, cramped hallway into the walled off yard and took him.

The years have not diminished the memory of how he felt. Merlin, how he felt. It was rough and primal, for we had nothing to smooth the way -- not, I suspect, that our first coupling would have ever been anything so sweet and romantic as lying naked in bed, staring into one another’s eyes and breathing the same air, as I carefully prepared him with my fingers for my cock. (That came later…) It was so urgent and rough, and despite the pain he must have felt, I know it was mingled with that exquisite pleasureful burn. The sounds he made as I fucked him raw… what I must have said… I was so wrapped up in the moment, wrapped up in the feel of his body taking me in, milking me, giving me the release from that powerful need. I fucked him fierce and proper, and he gave me everything.

Once the post-orgasmic bliss began to evaporate, he kissed me again. The kiss was languid and sweet, much more in line with the considerate lover I had always assumed him to be. The animalistic passion was gone, but I didn’t feel any the lesser for it. It was a different kind of passion, and I cherished it. It spoke of the future, or rather that a future between us was even possible. I couldn’t have imagined one, but I had that hint, that small promise of something worth working towards.

And yet, we fought. Of course we fought. We wouldn’t have been us if an encounter didn’t end with a bit of violence, a bit of hexing and smashed glass, a bit of being thrown out of the pub and being forced to pay for the damages later. Still, all’s well that ends well, to borrow from the Bard.

Things have a way of working themselves out so perfectly. Harry and I never would have been Harry and I had he shaken my hand and accepted my friendship as a child. We are who we are because of the contentiousness of our history. We are who we are because something happened to us that night, some unexplained magic overtook us and helped us to see just how much we belonged together.

To think that perhaps all I might have wanted once was a quick bit of slap and tickle. To imagine that on that night so many years ago I might have wanted to seduce him and then move along with my life. Instead, he became mine. Instead, we built a life together.

Pink unicorns might have made me do it, but they didn’t make me stay. No, that honor belongs to Harry James Potter, the great love of my life.


End file.
